


Copper

by boys_in (kaleidosphere)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood Drinking, Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Fluff, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaleidosphere/pseuds/boys_in
Summary: He wasn't a gentle shepherd, come to guide her from straying.He was a wolf, separating her from the pack.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley & Hubert von Vestra, Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Copper

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for [Hubernie Week,](https://twitter.com/HubernieWeek) using a combination of Day 4 and Day 5 prompts, "Shadow" and "Taste." Basically, I love vampires too much and Hubernie is really cute to me. I tried my hardest for Hubert, but he might be the trickiest character I've ever written for. So if he's a little out of sorts in this fic, blame it on the vampirism, haha. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It started with a stuffed animal. Bernadetta was in the habit of sewing and crafting in the confines of her room, and whenever real people turned out to be too unpredictable, she turned her sights onto teddy bears and tiny rabbits for company, instead. Usually, she stocked up well into the night, so she'd be able to spend hours and hours to herself, lost in her own little world of peculiarities.

When one of her favorite patchwork dolls, Lucille the Rabbit, was in need of new stitching, she was happy to oblige. But even in the safety of her own room, Bernadetta's anxiety was an outlier, and without meaning to, she had messed up on repairing the arm.

Lucille, once needing surgery, now needed amputation.

Bernie was horrified.

She wanted to cry, but it was midday and people would be passing by her dorm room. The last thing she needed was someone knocking at her door, asking her what was wrong even though they already knew the answer. Bernie bit her lip, and spent three hours agonizing over the thought of going outside. She had a sewing kit, of course, but Lucille was an old doll that needed a bit more than mending: cotton, cloth, perhaps a new patch to be sewn into its ears. Even though it lacked an arm, its debilitated state reminded Bernadetta that if she was going to fix one thing about it, she might as well fix the others.

And that was a venture which required materials. Materials which she did _not_ have.

A few more hours passed, and Bernie slowly opened the door to her room, peeking through the slight opening.

It was totally dark. She lost track of time, and before she knew it, night fell over the monastery. Even though knights did their occasional patrols around the area to protect students, most of the people were asleep, tucked away in their dorms. If she strained her ears, she could hear Raphael's snoring from all the way over there. The low cadence caused her stomach to knot.

"Oh, you really went and did it now, Bernie," she muttered to herself. "You just _had_ to do a supply run in the middle of the night. Maybe I should go back inside. But Lucille…"

She slipped through the opening in her door, swiftly closing it behind her as she went. For a few seconds, she walked along the edge of the wall, as if afraid that by stepping out, she'd be seen by someone. Anyone.

Moments later, she retreated to the dining hall. She always passed through there for midnight snacks (the cooks were very sympathetic towards her, and always turned a blind eye to her odd-houred cravings), but today she passed through it for simple comfort. Bernie never went to the marketplace at night before. She didn't even know if they were open at this time.

She poured herself a glass of water and drank.

A shadow crept up from behind her. "You're up late," said a definitive voice.

A voice as cold as ice, colder than the drink in Bernie's hands, colder than the sensation of the hairs on the back of her neck standing up on edge. She paused mid-movement, eyes wide, too afraid to turn around and face whatever ghost or demon had been there.

When the shadow stepped from out and around her, she could see it more clearly.

It was definitely a ghost.

"Aaah!" Bernie shouted, taking a step backward. "Don't eat me! Don't kill me! I'm so, so sorry—I swear I'll never go outside again!"

"Bernadetta—"

It was too late. She stumbled backward, limbs flailing, landing disgracefully on her behind, letting the glass slip between trembling fingertips. It fell from her hand to the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces around her. If she felt the shards ripping across her skin, cutting her thighs, fingertips, and knees in the process, she didn't express it. Her eyes were too wide, lips too quivery, movements too frightened for anything else to process.

Even as the blood began to well up at the site of the wound, even as the dark fluid began to seep through the gaps in her _body._

The shadow crouched down to her level. She noticed that unlike before, it began to stutter—a stagger in the midst of an impeccable slate. A hairline-fracture of imperfection, seizing its limbs and causing its shoulders to hunch up. A darkness so untameable that it shadowed even its owner—flickering gold eyes hesitating to make a move.

Oh.

"Hubert," she breathed out. "Oh, it's just you. I, I, I—"

"You've hurt yourself." He was never one for frivolities, or for euphemisms. Any other person would flourish their words with good intentions or soft inflections, but Hubert was not like any other person. He stared at Bernadetta, analyzing her with indiscretion, speaking tersely so as to cut straight through to her. "And to think, I wasn't even an enemy lying in wait. Though I don't suppose you need to be on the battlefield in order to become injured, now, do you?"

"Hubert, I'm so sorry. Please don't—"

"Why would I kill you when you are so very good at damaging your own self? The master of self-sabotage; I ought to take a page from your book."

"My book?" She blinked once, twice, then finally realized the ordeal she put herself through. "Ouch," Bernie hissed, hands flying to the cuts along her skin. From what she could tell, there was one long gash across her thigh, three tiny scrapes on her right knee, and two distinct cuts on her index fingers. All places where the water glass had betrayed her, revealing her timidity and clumsiness in full. The blood wasn't nearly as bad as the stinging pain—thousands of harmful air particles looming around her, intending to infect her as punishment for her mistakes.

She'd been injured before, of course. As a student at the Officers Academy, she was trained to _kill_ when the situation called for it. She was instructed on various battle techniques and retreat strategies. It wasn't uncommon for students to get injured (the unlucky ones _died_ but no one talked about them and Bernie decided she wouldn't, either), and Professor Manuela was happy to patch anyone up should they need patching.

Of course, it was the dead of night, and even the monastery's physician had to be asleep right now. No one else but Bernie could manage such a dangerous movement during peacetime.

Hubert was amused by this, as he was typically amused by Bernadetta's antics. Though he was grateful for her usual neurotic behavior, because otherwise she would have noticed _him,_ instead.

Noticed the way that his hands fidgeted, noticed the way his golden eyes were darkening, fleck by fleck, until they would eventually match the darkness around them. Or even noticed the way that his frame seemed larger, yet smaller, swathed in mystery and the night air. Maybe even noticed his breathing, which had gone up considerably, or the warmth like _fire_ burning his veins.

Noticed his teeth, which he ground into each other, forcing them to a stagnant _point_ and concealing them behind his pursed lips.

Bernadetta was an observant person, so he was thankful for this one instance in time where she wasn't.

"Stay put," he ordered. "Don't move. If you do, you'd be better off rolling around like a pig in these glass shards."

"Jeez, that's a little harsh, don't you think?" Bernie winced, but not before obeying his orders, and forcing her body to go rigid. "Are you going to use faith magic? I thought—"

"I have no talent for arts which rely on the Goddess' favor," he insisted. "I simply have my ways."

"Your ways?"

"You'll be content with that much, I'm sure."

"Nuh-uh, I won't." She pouted, but squinted her eyes closed in spite of her words. She wasn't really excited to see whatever secret healing art he had ready for it. It just reminded her of the madness that put her in this position to begin with. "A-Are you done?"

"If you allow me to work unimpeded, I would be."

"Sorry," she murmured. "I'm so sorry."

"Hmm."

It was quiet. Bernie's eyes were shut closed, but Hubert's were wide open. He picked out a couple of glass shards from her knee, and carefully prodded the wounded area with his fingers. She flinched at first, but he hissed out a wordless sound, causing her to straighten up with a whimper. Making sure her eyes were closed, Hubert brought his fingers up to his lips, and pressed against them until he was sure they had been in contact with his saliva.

Some might describe the action as _kissing_ but Hubert knew better. There was no room in his mind, in his _life,_ for such ridiculous pastimes. Kissing was a loving, emotional, and romantic gesture. Hubert denied anything of the sort.

Still, he brushed his fingers against her open wound, forcefully, ignoring the tiny squeaks that passed through Bernie's clenched lips. In doing so, he found that the cut slowly began to close up, and within the minute he had wiped away the last vestiges of injury on her knee.

The knee was the easy part. He still had her thighs and her fingertips left to go, and while he wasn't perturbed by the areas themselves, he doubted that she'd allow him to work so intimately with the rest of her body. Thighs which were close to her core, important for balance and protection, and fingertips which held her bow, wrought with calluses and bandages—leftover evidence of her skill as an archer, and her hobby as a craftsmaker.

He was quick to heal up her thigh, his fingers coming into contact with blood and water, reminding him of the mess she made all on her own. What a stupid, silly person Bernadetta von Varley was. What a fragile flower, growing in a garden of lies and deceit.

When it came to Bernie's fingers, Hubert realized the wounds there were particularly wide. The glass cut her more deeply in this part, and it would take more than just second-hand contact with his saliva to heal it.

He brought her fingers up to his lips and pressed them against his mouth, messily so, in hopes that the saliva from the source was enough.

Bernadetta gasped. "Hubert, what are you—"

"I'm finished." He let go of her fingers, letting her hand fall limply to her side. "Can you stand, or am I to do that for you, as well?"

"I can stand," she said. And though it took her a moment to right herself—whether it was because she had been injured and scared or whether because Hubert had _kissed her fingers,_ no one could tell by then—she was up on her feet soon enough.

"Good. I'd suggest returning to your room for now."

"But I—"

"Whatever inane errand you must run can be run in the morning, when all others are awake. Or do you wish for me to escort you, myself?"

"No, no, no way!" she cried out, taking another step back. From there, she saw a small puddle of water, stretching out beneath a shattered mosaic of glass. She suddenly felt bad for whoever would have to clean that up in the morning, because she doubted it would be her. "I can go, I guess."

"Very well. Farewell, Bernadetta."

He was a shadow ready to melt into the night. Before he became indiscernible from the dark dining hall, however, Bernadetta called out to him. "Hubert?" she asked quietly. "Uh, um, uh. I don't really know how to say this so I'm just gonna say it. Thankyouforthatweirdhealingyoudid, IswearIwon'ttellanyone, okay? Okay bye!"

She ran out before he could stop her, but her hurriedness did nothing to diminish the meaning of her message. Hubert understood every word, though he truly wished he had missed her good will in passing.

Instead, he brought his fingers to his lips, and thought quietly about the girl whose soft skin used to be there.

He could still taste her blood, copper flecks dissolving on his lips.

.

.

Hubert, on the battlefield, ran the dangerous line between "intelligently calculated" and "single mindedly mercenary." For the most part, he was one of the Black Eagles' best commanders. Lady Edelgard, while resolute, had a straightforward way of approaching battle. The other numskulls in their house were no better, though he had to admit Linhardt, when forced to actually work, was brilliant as a tactician. Though the effort used to force him to do something was hardly worth the result.

But other times, Hubert was just as straightforward. So long as Lady Edelgard succeeded, he didn't care what kind of methods were used. He operated from the shadows, as House Vestra is wont to do, but when forced to come sprawling out into the light, he spared no expense. Their enemies of the week were human traffickers disguised as bandits, a horrid realization that was made once the Black Eagles discovered a hovel of kidnapped people in a rundown house nearby. The look on the professor's face was as expressionless as ever, but this time, they made no plans for prisoners.

Hubert obliged just as well.

Yet, in his quest to lay out a path before Lady Edelgard, Hubert often neglected the losses made on the way. In his mind, there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for her, even if it meant sacrificing himself, or some of the others to achieve this goal.

So when a particularly skilled assassin leapt from the shadows, Hubert was caught off guard for the first time in a long time. He was quite the killer, himself, so he knew the methods necessary for taking a human life. Though he was violent and bloody about it, he made sure to be _discreet,_ to be clean after the fact. He was careful.

This assassin must have been enraged by the students' discovery of their terrible, dark secret. They must have been frustrated that half of their group's strongest fighters were taken down by a boy with bright blue hair, who was a whole head shorter than their shortest man. Or that some beautiful ex-songstress had blasted them to bits, rather than singing their praises. Or even that some layabout healer, who detested bloodshed and murder, brought down powerful armored units with his retaliatory white magic spells.

Either way, they came at Hubert with unwavering conviction, and sliced at his legs with their sharp silver sword.

The blood sputtered out in messy waves, and Hubert grunted as he fell to his knees.

No sooner than he had fallen, he summoned the most terrible dark arts to consume the assassin, thankful that he had it in him to cut straight at the _heart._ What some might even call, a critical hit.

"Hubert!"

He glanced up and sighed. It was Bernadetta, of course. Why would it be anyone else?

He ignored her completely as he propped himself up against a tree. Though it was his legs that were injured, he brought his hands to his core, to his face, as if to try and stave off some invisible specter clinging onto him like static. Bernie crept down to his level, and reached for his legs.

"Are you okay? I have a concoction with me, we can—"

"No need," he said. His voice had the usual tone and cadence, but there was no denying the lack of _volume,_ or the fatigue that settled in him. The assassin only cut his legs, but their wound was deep. He was losing a lot of blood. "The Goddess can do nothing for me."

"Don't say that!" Bernie snapped. On the battlefield, she truly shone in moments like these—almost as if the usual Bernadetta was a mask that fell in the face of combat, and the true warrior underneath had come out to play. "If you bleed out, you'll die. Linhardt's so far away, I don't remember the last time I saw him. And Dorothea—"

"They can heal me, but it will be formality and nothing more."

She paused. Her hands, Hubert noticed, were roughed up. Probably from overuse of her bow. She had a dozen good arrows left in her quiver, so he wasn't worried about them being ambushed, but it was obvious that she was spent, too. This little break was good for the both of them, whether she knew it or not. "What do you mean?"

"Look at my legs and you tell me."

Bernadetta hesitated, but nodded once before carefully propping one of his injured legs upward. She had to crawl to be able to see underneath—to see the inner thigh and the back of the knee that had been slashed at—but once she saw, it was apparent. Her voice rose to an innocent peak. "What?" she gasped. "How is that—how are you healing already?"

Hubert didn't like to humor anyone, even his allies, but to this he spared a smile. "How, indeed? I'd like to hear your thoughts on the matter, if you're still going to waste time nursing me."

"Are you wearing one of the Goddess rings?" Bernie asked. She was still seated on her knees, one hand armed with a silver bow, the other hand in position to grab an arrow. There were no enemies around, but she certainly became aware of how much time had passed since the last ambush. "Ingrid gave one of those rings to Dorothea. They're enchanted, y'know, so you'd be able to heal—"

"Impossible. The professor allocated all of our enchanted white magic items to Linhardt, Dorothea, and Lady Edelgard."

"...Did Linhardt heal you just now? Are you guys playing a prank on me?"

"I won't even entertain an answer for that one."

"You're right," Bernie mumbled. "Hubert and pranks? No way."

"..."

"...Are you...like the professor?"

To this, Hubert sat up straight, and let his legs fall flat to the ground. Bernie protested, as she usually did whenever he tried to do something, but he didn't care. His legs would heal up with or without her observation. "And what do you mean by that?"

"Well, you know, Professor Byleth is so _weird._ I've never met anyone like them."

"And I suppose you are the expert of meeting people."

"Hey!" she burned bright red at his remarks. It was a much better reaction than the usual screaming, he'd have to admit. "Okay, that's fair enough, but I'm being serious. Like, y'know, Professor Byleth feels…"

"...Inhuman?"

"Yes," she muttered softly. "Not in a bad way, obviously. They're so nice to all of us, so there's no way they're evil."

"And so you make the same assumption of me? That I'm inhuman?"

"That you're not _evil,"_ she corrected. "But also, maybe, a little inhuman."

"..."

"Am I right?" she asked hesitantly.

"When did you get so perceptive, hmm?" Hubert asked distantly. It wasn't the injury or the pain that made him lightheaded, because he'd never show this much vulnerability around Bernadetta if that were the case. Rather, it was the lack of blood, and the fact that for a very long time, now, he hadn't had any of it for himself.

He closed his eyes. Even in darkness, his mind kept imagining her neck, and the bright red crimson that would flow freely from it if he tried.

 _If_ he tried.

"So," Bernadetta asked, breaking him free from his thoughts. "What are you?"

"What am I?"

"You're healing without a healer, and without potions, and without anything, basically. And, uh, you're like a ghost." Bernie paused, and hobbled backward on her knees, bow still drawn. "Oh my gosh, you're a _ghost,_ aren't you? Please don't haunt me! Please don't possess me! Please don't—"

"I'm not a ghost," Hubert said. He leaned his head back against the tree bark, eyes aimed toward the sky. "I'm simply someone who is very thirsty. It is not the injury itself that is hurting me, but the blood loss. Do you understand, Bernadetta?"

"Blood loss." She glanced around. The distant echoes of fighting were still audible, but as far as she could tell, there was no one around. Plenty of corpses, though—no doubt courtesy of one Hubert von Vestra, himself. "You need to drink... _blood?"_

"Yes. So if I were you, I'd run far, far away, and let me die of thirst out here in peace."

"You'll die of thirst?"

"In spite of my healing injuries, if I lose that much blood, it's only natural I need some more to replace it. Seeing as that is virtually impossible, given the fact that we are surrounded by damnable corpses, I'd say so."

"You don't drink our blood?"

"I'd sooner die than go against Lady Edelgard."

"Not even Linhardt or Caspar's?"

"I make it a habit not to incapacitate Lady Edelgard's assets."

"What about me?"

And for the second time that day, Hubert von Vestra was caught off guard. It was a rare sight, indeed, for him to be so off balance. He could blame the blood loss all he'd like, but the truth of the matter was that he never imagined someone offering themselves to him in a million years. And it would take another ten million for him to believe that the first person to offer him blood all his sordid life would be _Bernadetta von Varley._

Yet her gaze never wavered, and though her expression was curious, rather than serious, it was clear that she wasn't lying.

"You don't know what you're saying," he insisted. "I am injured and you are fatigued. We should head back immediately."

"Your injury is healing by itself," she pointed out. "And I'm a bit tired, but we're out on a mission. We're _supposed_ to be tired. That's what Linhardt told me, anyway. And the professor. And _you—"_

"Bernadetta. Do you realize that, if, hypothetically, you offer me your blood, I might never stop drinking it?"

"Um, I think you _would_ stop if I did, hypothetically, offer you my blood."

"And why is that?"

"Because I can hear the battle dying down. We've been gone for about ten minutes, and once everyone is finished up, they'll come looking for us." She smiled nervously. "I don't know about you, but I'd die if the others found you drinking me dry like that."

_I'd die, too. Not because of the others, though._

"Because of you," Hubert muttered. "You are a strange one."

"So, would you consider it?"

"Drinking your blood?"

"Yes."

A wry smile. She really knew how to amuse him. "I've considered it on more than one occasion."

"Wait, seriously?" She burned an even brighter shade of red. Was she regretting her offer just now? "I can't tell if you're joking or not."

"Right, because chief among all my talents is the ability to be _humorous."_

"Hubert, I'm being serious."

 _I know._ "I'd rather you didn't."

"Twelve minutes have gone by since they last saw us," she reminded him. "It's so quiet. If you're going to drink my blood, it's now or never."

"Very well. I hope you come to regret this decision, Bernadetta."

Then he reached out, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her close to him. She squealed and her carefully guarded stance was destroyed in one singular instant, as she was mere inches away from melting into Hubert entirely. They were both dressed for battle—Hubert in his robes, Bernadetta in her light leather guards and sniper's wear—and the way that their bodies were colored in shades of red, reminded Bernie of a particularly romantic (yet _gruesome_ ) scene in one of her handwritten stories.

But it wasn't like her stories, she realized, when Hubert snaked one arm around her back, forcing her to lean forward him. It wasn't romantic or heroic, like any of her fictional romantics or heroines had done. Hubert's touch was rough, cruel, callous. As if he no longer realized it was Bernadetta, a classmate and probable friend, in his arms. As if he'd been holding onto some pig for slaughter, instead, or an enemy he just had a heated duel with.

He wasn't a gentle shepherd, come to guide her from straying.

He was a wolf, separating her from the pack.

And when his mouth had opened, revealing sharp white fangs, she realized too late that she was a lamb who laid herself down to die.

In the arms of a wolf, who cradled her so closely to his own chest, where her heartbeat had melded into his, and his hands around her body and neck were too tight to be loving. A wolf that resisted every urge to snap her sheep's limbs in half, fangs poised to _drain,_ not to kill.

Bernadetta closed her eyes, and sighed quietly as his fangs hovered over the stretch of her neck. It was an awkward position, as Hubert was still lying against a tree, and Bernadetta was positioned above him, so he had to reach out and upward, so his teeth could scrape by the bareness of her neck, so his mouth could hover over her hammering pulse.

Then he bit down, and it felt like knives digging into her. She wanted to scream, to cry, to thrash, but she knew that in doing so, it would disrupt him, and cause her to become more injured than she already was.

In the midst of such thoughts, she realized that his grip around her body had considerably lessened, and his aggressive desire to _feed_ was shadowed by his desperate wish to _yearn._ Hubert von Vestra was his own master of self-sabotage, Bernadetta realized. He held back on himself all these months, sustaining on pure willpower alone. If he hadn't been injured, if he hadn't been hurt, would he even show this side of himself to Bernadetta?

Would she even allow him to?

In the end, Hubert pulled away before she lost too much blood, but not before she had gone lightheaded at the loss. She felt like she was floating, barely connected to the body that grounded her. Bernie didn't even react when Hubert had kissed her neck, in the same spot where she'd been bitten, in order to heal up the evidence of him ever having been there.

As if she could forget his fiery eyes, or the way his mouth set into a straight line, lips bruised and bloody from their terrible deed.

A shining hue of copper.

.

.

Three months had passed since then. Bernie didn't talk to Hubert, and Hubert, silently ashamed at what he'd done, allowed himself to be spurned.

Then, during Pegasus Moon, just one month before the entire Black Eagles class would turn against the church, Bernadetta von Varley found a bouquet of orchids on her doorstep, right next to a glass of water. She took both objects back into her room, and laid them on her desk. Only later, in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep (and when the glass of water proved to be helpful in quenching her thirst), did she realize there was a card attached to the bouquet.

In familiar, slanted writing, it read:

_I'm sorry._

.

.

The war came. The Black Eagle Strike Force lost their professor, but they conquered Garreg Mach, and took the monastery as their own.

On the night following their victory, Bernadetta took up residence in her dorm, though after not seeing it in over a month, it felt foreign to her. She knew Edelgard and Hubert would be so much busier now that they ignited the flames of war. She knew that despite being on the elite task force herself, she'd be too busy to do anything other than fight.

Despite that, she just couldn't leave things between her and Hubert as they were. But, as always, she lacked the strength to face him head on.

So she wrote him a letter, and she tucked it away in her drawer.

When the Emperor and her right hand returned to Adrestia for over a year, settling affairs in the homeland, leaving the monastery for their former classmates, Bernadetta sent the letter out to him, addressing it to the Imperial Palace despite knowing that messengers were unreliable.

But if her letter was lost to war or to time, she wouldn't lament. The two of them would be much happier if Hubert never received the letter at all.

.

.

Following the disappearance of Byleth and the Battle at Garreg Mach, Hubert von Vestra accompanied the new Adrestian Emperor, Edelgard von Hresvelg, back to the Imperial Palace. They spent a whole year there, sorting through affairs, before they even thought of going back to the monastery to try and make sense of the undoing they did. And in total, five years would pass before they would reunite with their beloved professor.

Five months into those very five years, however, and Hubert received a letter. He had thousands of letters and correspondence, most of them information being passed back and forth through his network of spies. There were two occasions in which he received letters from his allies: one from Petra, regarding matters with Brigid, and another from Ferdinand, who had taken to bad-mouthing him via letter now that they were separated in time and space.

Of all the letters to find, Hubert did not expect to receive one from Bernadetta. In truth, he thought of her often, and felt a rare instance of _regret_ whenever his eyes laid upon her. Even if she was the one to offer herself first, Hubert knew he should have exercised caution. It wasn't even regret for her as a person. She was the best sniper he'd ever seen—there are more reasons than one why he should try to value her more.

Still, he recognized her handwriting instantly, even though the copper wax seal was different from her usual floral-based stationery. Inside the gilded envelope, he found a single-page letter covered in her beautiful handwriting. It read:

_Hubert,_

_It's been so long since we've talked to each other! You stopped scaring me at night, and I know you like the nighttime, so that must have been on purpose, right? Anyway, I know you think about it too: the day you drank my blood. To be honest, a part of me thought it was a dream for the longest time. But you stopped approaching me, even for the small things, and I realized it had to be real. Kind of awkward how things ended up this way, huh? I'm guessing you knew this was inevitable, though. Maybe this was the reason you kept it all a secret._

_But now that we've started a war, we're going to need all the friends we can get. I don't want us to be strained anymore. I want to try to be friends. And I already know what you're thinking, okay?! I know that you think I'm crazy or weird or whatever. And I told myself, "Bernie, what are you doing trying to start up a conversation with Hubert? He's so busy and has no time for little shut-ins like you." Except that's not true, is it?_

_You left me that bouquet almost half a year ago. You told me you were sorry. For the longest time, I admired you, because you always said what everyone else was too afraid to say. But now I realize you're not like that at all—you're shy like me, aren't you? Why else would you send me a card but not approach me in person? Even after we won at the Battle of Garreg Mach, you barely looked at me. Maybe I've got it all wrong, but if that's the case, you can just burn this letter up and totally forget about it._

_But if you're like me, and if you're thinking about what was, what is, and what could be, then I'd like to know your thoughts! Besides, we're not going to do much but fight from this point on. It would be nice to catch a break. Even though we have scouts here telling us how things are doing on the home front, I'd love to hear from you, anyway. If you would let me._

_As Always,_

_Bernadetta._

.

.

For the first two years, Bernadetta and Hubert sent letters back and forth. It wasn't a perfect arrangement—their correspondence often got intercepted, and months would pass before they received a reply from one another. At some point, Bernadetta feared he wanted nothing to do with her, but just as she thought that, a letter from Hubert would be delivered to her door.

Apparently, he had taken to drinking blood from his defeated enemies. The only other person who knew about his true nature was Edelgard, and she tried time and time again to have him drink from her, but he'd never allow her to sully herself with his disgusting presence. Compared to conquering the stubborn Kingdom and Alliance, however, Hubert's condition was nothing.

Bernadetta read lots of books in her spare time, and in doing so she found old Adrestian legends about creatures that stalked the night, and how the Goddess' light was able to send them back to the shadows. The translation of the old word they used was _vampyr._ Bernadetta started calling him a _vampire._

Hubert let the name stick, though he preferred if she didn't give him any more power to his nature than he already had.

She said she didn't mind.

And once two years passed, Hubert would return to the monastery for the first time since leaving it. Edelgard would be there, too, and she mentioned it would be a "miniature reunion" for the Black Eagle Strike Force. After all, their professor was still nowhere to be found (despite extensive searching), but they would still honor their memory. They weren't giving up on Byleth, quite yet.

Bernadetta wished she could think of anything else but Hubert, but she was too excited to do so. After all, it had been two years! She was older now, herself, and she even started straightening her hair and managing it better. It was still a little messy here and there, but it had to have been a thousand times nicer than whatever mess she developed during their academy days. Perish the thought!

But if she changed, Hubert did, as well. And part of her wondered if he still thirsted after her all this time, or if in like their correspondence, he tried to forget he was an anomaly to begin with.

On the day of the first Black Eagle Strike Force reunion, Bernadetta strolled the monastery grounds, until she found herself in the dining hall.

Seated at the far end of a table, with nothing but two glasses of water in front of him, was Hubert von Vestra.

Bernadetta von Varley smiled, and took her place across from him. "Hubert," she said. "It's been a while."

His hair was shorter now, a bit more styled but still dark and messy. She could see both of his eyes, golden and discerning, staring her down with amusement. He traced the rim of his glass with his finger—still gloved, of course—and smiled softly at her admission.

"It most certainly has," he replied.

.

.

Bernadetta forgave him, as she forgave all of her friends for this misgivings at one point or another. She even forgave their other classmates—former Lions and Deer—who went up against them more than once during border skirmishes and power struggles. No one notable had died yet, but it was only a matter of time before the Empire claimed their lives, too.

If it meant destroying the toxic system Fódlan set itself up on, the blood of thousands of classmates was necessary. Bernadetta knew this, yet she still lamented at the thought of killing such close friends. She hoped she wasn't deployed during the important fights. She hoped someone else got the killing shot in.

During Imperial Year 1184, Hubert von Vestra and Bernadetta von Varley had met up at the Goddess Tower. It was an ironic place for both of them—Bernie, who shunned all the childish rumors and romance that surrounded the place, and Hubie, who detested the Goddess and the falseness she stood for. Yet up there, no one could spy on them, and no one could bother them. It was a quiet and starless night, obscured by clouds, reminding them that if it weren't for the battles raging outside of the monastery, they'd be in their own little realm of peace.

Hubert and Bernadetta had a shared love for reading, as they discovered over the years. Bernie was still adamant about sewing and crafting, and on more than one occasion, she tried to convince Hubert to let her sew flowers into his cape, or something of the sort.

"I'm wearing the embroidered flower you gave me," he said without missing a beat. He was buried in a book and hadn't even glanced up at her yet. "That's more than enough 'color' I'm willing to compromise."

"A little more color would do you good," she hummed. Her own ensemble was purple and flashy—since her academy days, Bernie appreciated what creative freedom could do to her wardrobe. "But if you still like the flower I gave you, then I'm happy. And I can't believe you agreed to hang out with me—I thought you were busy."

"Immensely," he agreed. "It can wait."

"It can?"

"No. But it shall."

She giggled. He always had a way with words, even if that way was strange and dark, compared to the norm. "How are you holding up?"

"In what sense are you referring to?"

"Any sense."

"I'm fine."

"Then—"

"You're going to offer your blood to me again, aren't you?"

Bernadetta froze up. Even though she had gotten better over the years, her anxiety wasn't going away any time soon. Not even if she desperately wanted it to. "I mean, not exactly, but, um, I was curious about...about how you were handling _that_ part of yourself. The vampirism, I mean."

"Remind me again why I allow you to coin a term that _does not exist_ and which only applies to me."

"...Because you can't think of something better?"

He shot her a pointed look. She resisted the urge to scream and curl up into a ball. "It is not something of notoriety. It is an anomaly that should not exist."

"And yet it does," she replied snappily.

"And yet it does," he said quietly.

"When I offered the first time, it was a mistake."

Hubert paused for a moment, then he closed his book. He gave his full attention to Bernadetta, whether she liked it or not. "What do you mean?"

"I thought if I said no, or if I left you there—I thought you'd kill me or something."

"So you offered yourself ahead of me, in order to avoid my scorn?"

"Yes."

He chuckled. "I can't say I'm surprised. That's exactly the kind of behavior I'd expect from you."

She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "Is it?"

"You were a fragile thing back then, always cowering. Now, with several years behind you, and a league of dead bodies claimed as your own, I suppose you're strong enough now to face me with unsaid conviction."

"Strong enough to know a coward when I see one."

Hubert didn't seem bothered. He was completely calm as he asked, "You think me cowardly?"

"Uh, why else would you bite me?"

"Because you—quite literally—asked me to."

"Because you were afraid you wouldn't get another chance."

"I see. And anything else you claim to know about me, since we are, unfortunately, discussing the matter so thoroughly?"

"I mean, you were around students all the time. Even though all that stuff with Jeritza and Monica—" _Kronya,_ Bernadetta internally corrected herself, because Goddess, was this all so complicated— "was happening, there were never rumors about people getting bitten in the middle of the night."

"What do you mean to achieve by telling me that which I already know?"

"I mean to say that you could've drained anyone's blood, but you didn't. You were _scared_ , weren't you?"

"I wasn't." His voice lacked any sinister hints whatsoever, in spite of the accusation against him. If anything, Hubert had been calmer than ever before. "I admit to some... _hesitation,_ on my part, but I was younger then. I'd hardly call it fear."

"Fine," she said. "But I know the truth."

"Well, then. I am grateful that you are aligned with Her Majesty's cause, because I dread to think of what a truth-sayer would do on the opposing side."

"Hmph!" Bernie turned on her heels, and pretended her latest novel—a story about a vampire woman and a human man—was more interesting than the actual vampire behind her. "Whatever. I'll just be quiet now. Sorry to ruin your focus, or whatever."

"You did not ruin anything," he murmured. "I am the one who ruins."

"That's not true." Bernadetta paused in her writing—the next sentence was botched up, anyway. "You know, I don't think anyone has given me a bouquet before. It was very nice."

"Hmm."

"I love flowers," she said. "I like the carnivorous plants better, but flowers are still beautiful."

"Mmm."

"I like what you did for me. I just wish I could do the same for you."

"I do not think the services which we offer each other are of equal value," Hubert insisted. "By offering your blood, you are exposing yourself to me. You are leaving your life in my hands."

"You've saved me plenty of times on the battlefield."

"As have you."

"So how is this different?"

"Because an arrangement like this is dangerous for an extended period of time."

"Hubert—"

"Because if I start, I truly fear that this time, I will not be able to stop."

Bernadetta stood up, only to find that Hubert was right behind her, towering over her as he did. He was always a tall, proud man. Had he been so handsome, too? So dark, and resolute? She blinked, and said: "So you admit to being scared?"

"Yes, but not for other students, or random citizens, as you have surmised."

"Then—"

"I do not wish to hurt you, Bernadetta von Varley."

She smiled, so soft and forthcoming. "Then don't hurt me, Hubert von Vestra."

Hubert reached out, but was soon stopped by Bernadetta's firm hand grasping his wrist. Her fingers were slender, more callused than before as she was hardened by battle over the years. And yet, it was the same softness he had known from her—the same careful consideration she put into everything she did.

"If you should touch me," she whispered, "then you will do it with your hands. Not with your gloves."

"You—"

"For me. Please?"

Hubert stayed still, and watched with muted interest as Bernadetta slid the glove off his fingers, revealing his bony hand covered in scars. She wasn't disturbed by them, however. Nothing disturbed war-torn souls like theirs anymore. She merely brought the hand to her cheek, closing her eyes against his hesitant touch. "Much better," she whispered.

He said nothing more as he looped her hair around her ears, pushing back the longest strands, which were soft like silk between his fingers. It had been so very long since he felt someone's skin with his own—the gloves were a measure against flesh and bone, a barrier between him and the blood he spilled. He was never a sentimental person, either, so he had no problem distancing himself from others if necessary.

He didn't mind working from the shadows.

But she was insistent on coaxing him out into the light. She was demanding of him, and he couldn't remember the last time she demanded anything at all.

It didn't matter. He liked it either way.

And as he removed the other glove himself, he could truly feel her face in his hands, how gentle and small and pretty she'd been all this time. As if her roundness was made to combat his angles—as if her light was destined to shine upon his depths.

He tilted her chin upwards, guiding her to look at him, their eyes meeting in a dance of colors. Gold and purple, like her ensemble, like a bruise. But this kind of interaction didn't hurt as much as it should. It felt light, natural, easy. Like any difficulties he once faced were inconsequential, to the comfort that was this moment.

Before she could say anything, Hubert thrust her into his arms, wrapping himself around her, doing what he had never, ever done to someone before—not his father, not Byleth, not even Edelgard.

He embraced Bernadetta. He hugged her so tightly, that she would have broken if it weren't for his restraint. She was so huggable, he realized—for all the wear-and-tear the years had done to her, she still managed to be so _soft._ And a younger, more naive version of Hubert—someone who had just been introduced to the cruelties of life, someone who had yet to devote themselves to Lady Edelgard—might have fallen in love with this moment. He might have whimpered out something so pathetic and unbecoming, like a beggar eating for the first time in months.

But Hubert had grown just as Bernadetta did. As the war set upon them, he had come to accept aspects of life that were inexplicable, unchangeable. And just as the light existed, so did darkness. He no longer wished for a way to return to the light, as bright and amiable as it had been. He simply learned to accept the darkness within him—the monstrosities that made his humanity stand out, the filth that allowed him to shine.

As he hugged her, he savored her gasp—she didn't think he was capable of affection, either—and relished it before morphing her voice into something more _pained,_ into something more squeaky.

He bit down into her neck, still locked in a frontal embrace. And he knew that it hurt, since she cried out sharply. He knew that as sweet as the gesture was, it was drowned in the bitterness of his teeth, in the hunger of his core. He knew that if he wasn't careful, he'd ruin anything and everything they had between them up until now.

Yet the more he drank, the tighter he held onto her, as if all this time, _she_ was the ghost who'd disappear into the wind. As if _she_ was the darkness, fading into the night, going places that couldn't be seen. Desperate and frenzied, Hubert bit down, down, _down_ into Bernie's neck, hoping to find some answer in her skin.

In her _soul._

Bernadetta didn't give in. She was strong, always had been, and she remained upright, grasping onto him as tightly as he did to her, unwilling to let him go even when he snatched her up and ate her, like the wolf he is. Unwilling to part with the shadows, even if she was much more suited to the light.

It wasn't until her knees buckled that she understood he was her anchor preventing her from falling. He drank so much blood from her, her head went light, and her limbs buzzed lightly with some weird mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline. If he hadn't clung to her, she would have slipped from his hands, like sand between his fingers. She was grateful for his presence there.

And once she had gone slack in his arms, Hubert released her. She was on the edge of danger—mere seconds away from falling into an irreversible state, but Hubert knew better than to destroy one of the few things he'd come to love.

...Love?

"Hubert," Bernadetta muttered. "You—"

"I hurt you," Hubert said. "Like I knew I would."

"You _stopped."_

"Oh." He wasn't typically speechless, but she had a way of surprising him every time. "I suppose I did."

She smiled, and fell into his arms. He was careful to catch her, and hold her even closer to him, until he became her cradle, and he could reach down and push her hair out of her face, revealing her softness in full. From here, he could see her tranquil expression, brows drawn as the feeding _did_ hurt, but mouth controlled as she expected as much. He saw her. He saw everything.

He reached down, and kissed her neck. She sighed, and he kissed her again. "I would've resented this before," he muttered. "All this—"

"Kissing?" she supplied deliriously. He knew she needed to rest soon. "Haha. If I didn't know any better, I would've thought that you read my l-latest novel."

"I would never read ahead of you."

"My, how considerate. A r-real hero."

"I'll take care of you, Bernadetta. You have my word."

"Good," she said. "And I have your gloves."

She placed them in his hands, but he merely set them aside, and let her fall asleep in his steady arms.

He wanted the full experience, this time.

.

.

"What do I taste like?"

Hubert was thankful that no one else was around, because they would sure like the context to _that_ little statement of hers. Thankfully, he was controlled enough to not let Bernadetta's words fluster him, but the words he wrote on the paper as he was writing them made absolutely no sense. "I'm sure you taste like meat. All humans do."

"Gross!" Bernie took her place at the seat across from him. Since conquering the monastery four years ago, Hubert took up Seteth's old office as his own. He said it was because it was close to the Cardinal's Room, so he'd have less back-and-forth trips to make, but everyone knew he secretly enjoyed the sick irony that came along with it. "I mean, what does my _blood_ taste like?"

"And why do you want to know that?"

"Because it must taste good, since you drink it all the time."

"Since you _offer_ it to me all the time," Hubert corrected. He was as straightforward as ever, but Bernie knew he was good to her in rare moments like these. Around the others, he was acerbic as always. "It doesn't taste like sweets, if you were wondering."

"Like coffee?"

"No."

"You like coffee though."

"Yes, but trust me when I say I'd be appalled to drink your blood as if it were coffee."

"Okay. So tell me, what does my blood taste like?" She leaned forward on his desk, and rested her chin on her hands. "Peaches and cream? Garreg Mach Meat Pie? How about taffy—"

"If you are hungry, you should go to the dining hall, not to me."

"If you'd answer the question, I wouldn't have to think about _food."_

Hubert exhaled, and sat back in his seat. The letter would remain unfinished (he ended up writing _Bernadetta Bernadetta Bernadetta_ twenty times in a row, followed by _Bernadetta von Vestra Hubert von Varley_ fifteen times in a row. The letter would have to be rewritten at some point) so there was no use in pretending otherwise. He stared her straight in the eye, smiling softly at her unwavering expression.

The way the light from the outside spilled into the room, falling onto her shoulders like feathers from a plume, was surely no coincidence.

He wondered how dark he appeared in comparison.

"You'll be disappointed with the answer," he began. "But it tastes salty, metallic."

"Like iron?"

He laughed—shortly, but it was a laugh, nonetheless—before reaching out and brushing her cheek with his bare hand.

"Like _copper."_


End file.
